Complete Works of Emile Zola (1744 page)

‘You unhappy creature! Has neither prayer nor penance been able to rid you of the poison, then? That poison is mastering you again, and it will end by casting you into eternal punishment should you relapse into your abominable sin.’

‘What poison are you talking of, grandmother? My husband loves me, and, in spite of everything, I love him still. Is that poison? I have struggled for five years; I wished to give myself entirely to God; why did not God fill the aching void of my being, in which I desired to receive Him alone? Religion has satisfied me neither as to wifely happiness nor as to motherly tenderness, and if I am now going back to that happiness and tenderness, it is because of the downfall of that heaven in which I have found only deception and falsehood.’

‘You are blaspheming, my girl, and you will be punished for it by the most cruel sufferings.... If the poison which has tortured you did not come from Satan, it follows that it must have come from God. Faith is forsaking you; you are on the high road to negation, to absolute perdition.’

‘That is true; for months now I have believed a little less each day. I did not dare to confess it to myself, but amid all my bitterness of feeling something was slowly destroying the beliefs of my childhood and youth.... How strange it was! All my childhood full of chimeras, all my pious youth had revived within me, with all the fine mysteries and ceremonies of worship, when I first sought refuge here. But when I again endeavoured to plunge into the
au delà
of the mysteries, when I strove to give myself to Jesus amid the chants and the flowers, those dreams gradually faded, became mere deceptive fancies, in which nought of my being found contentment.... Yes, the poison must have been my training, the errors in which I grew up, which brought me so much suffering when they revived, and of which I shall only be cured when the evil ferment is completely eliminated.... Shall I ever be cured? I hardly know. There is still such strife within me!’

Madame Duparque was restraining herself, for she well understood that violence on her part would seal her rupture with the young woman and the girl, who, with the little boy, seated on his chair, listening attentively without understanding, were all that remained of her race. Thus she was minded to make a last effort, and addressing herself to Louise, she said: ‘You, my poor child, are the most to be pitied, and I shudder when I think of the pit of abomination into which you are casting yourself.... If you had made your first Communion all these sorrows would have been spared us. God is punishing us for having failed to overcome your impious resistance. Yet there is still time, and what favours would you not obtain from His infinite mercy if you would only submit, and approach the Holy Table as a humble handmaiden of Jesus!’

But the girl responded gently: ‘Why revert to that, grandmother? You know very well what promise I gave my father. I cannot vary in my answer; I will come to a decision when I am twenty; I shall then see if I have faith.’

‘But, you unhappy, obstinate child, if you go back to that man, who has wrecked both your mother’s life and your own, your decision can be told in advance! You will remain without any belief, any religion at all, like a mere beast of the fields!’

Then, as the daughter and mother deferentially preserved silence, and even resumed their packing in order to curtail a useless and painful discussion, the old lady gave expression to a last desire: ‘Well, if you have both resolved to go, at least leave me the little boy — leave me Clément. He will redeem your folly, I will bring him up in the love of God, I will make a holy priest of him, and at least I shall not be alone; there will be two of us to pray that the divine anger may not fall upon you on the terrible Day of Judgment.’

But Geneviève had sprung to her feet. ‘Leave Clément!’ she exclaimed; ‘why, it is largely on his account that I am going. I no longer know how to bring him up; I wish to restore him to his father, in order that we may come to an understanding and endeavour to make a man of him.... No, no, I am taking him with me!’

Then Louise, who also stepped forward, added very gently and respectfully: ‘Why do you say that you will remain alone, grandmother? We do not wish to forsake you, we will often come to see you, every day if you will allow us. And we will love you well, and try to show you how much we desire to make you happy.’

Madame Duparque could restrain herself no longer. The flood of anger which she had found it so difficult to check, flowed over and carried her away with a rush of furious words: ‘That’s enough! Keep quiet! I will listen to you no longer! But you are quite right, pack your boxes and be off! Be off, all three of you, I cast you out! Go and join that cursed man, that bandit who spat on God and His ministers to endeavour to save that filthy Jew, who has been twice condemned!’

‘Simon is innocent!’ cried Geneviève, in her turn losing all restraint; ‘and those who caused him to be condemned are liars and forgers!’

‘Yes, yes, I know; it is that affair which has ruined you and is separating us. You imagine the Jew to be innocent; you can no longer believe in God. But your imbecile justice is the negation of divine authority. And for that reason all is quite over between us.... Go, go as quickly as possible with your children! Don’t soil this house any longer, don’t bring any more thunderbolts upon it! You are the sole cause of its misfortunes.... And, mind, don’t set foot here again; I cast you off, I cast you off for ever! When once you have crossed the threshold you need never knock at the door, it will not be opened to you. I have no children left, I am alone in the world, and I will live and die alone!’

As she spoke, the old woman, nearly in her eightieth year, drew up her lofty figure with a fierce energy. Her voice was still strong, her gestures were commanding ones. She cursed, she punished, she exterminated after the fashion of her Deity of wrath and death. And afterwards she descended the stairs with a pitiless tread, and shut herself in her room, waiting there till the last children of her flesh should be gone for ever.

It so happened that Marc, that very same day, received a visit from Salvan, who found him in the large classroom, which was quite bright with the glow of the September sunshine. The vacation would come to an end in another ten days, and, though Marc hourly expected to be informed of his dismissal, he was consulting his books and notes as if preparing for the new school year. However, by Salvan’s grave if smiling demeanour, he at once understood the truth.

‘This time it’s done, is it not?’ he exclaimed.

‘
Mon Dieu,
yes, it’s done, my friend. Quite a long list of changes, appointments and promotions, prepared by Le Barazer, has been signed.... Jauffre will leave Jonville and come to Beaumont, which is fine advancement for him. That clericalist Chagnat goes from Le Moreux to Dherbecourt, which is scandalous when one remembers what a brute the fellow is.... For my part, I am simply pensioned off to make room for Mauraisin, who triumphs.... And you, my friend—’

‘I am dismissed, eh?’

‘No, no, you have simply fallen into disgrace. You are sent back to Jonville in the place of Jauffre, and Mignot, your assistant, who is compromised with you, is to take Chagnat’s post at Le Moreux.’

Marc raised a cry of happy surprise: ‘But I am delighted!’ Salvan, who had come expressly to acquaint him with the news, indulged in a hearty laugh. ‘That is Le Barazer’s diplomacy, you see! That is what he was preparing, when, according to his habit, he endeavoured to gain time. He has ended by satisfying that terrible Sanglebœuf and the other reactionaries by appointing Mauraisin to succeed me, and promoting Jauffre and Chagnat. And this has enabled him to retain your services and those of Mignot. Outwardly he seems to blame you, but he does not intend to disown you entirely. Besides, he is leaving Mademoiselle Mazeline here, and in your place is appointing Joulic, one of my best pupils, a man of free and healthy mind. Thus Maillebois, Jonville, and Le Moreux will be henceforth provided with excellent masters, ardent missionaries of the future.... That is the position, and, I tell you again, nobody can alter Le Barazer; one must take him as he is, and feel pleased even when what he does is only half of what one would like to see.’

‘I am delighted,’ Marc repeated. ‘It was more particularly the prospect of having to quit the profession altogether that grieved me. Thinking of the now term I felt sorrowful all the morning. Where could I have gone, what could I have done? It will certainly pain me to leave the boys here, for I am very fond of them. But my consolation will be to find others yonder, to whom I shall also become attached. And as for the humbleness of the school, what does that matter if I am able to continue my life-work, still sowing the seed which alone can yield the harvest of truth and equity? Oh!  yes, I shall go back to Jonville right willingly, and with fresh hope.’

Then he strode gaily about the bright, sunshiny classroom as if again taking on himself that teaching mission, the relinquishment of which would have been so hard to bear. And at last, with juvenile ardour and delight, he flung his arms about Salvan and embraced him. At that same moment Mignot, who, also expecting dismissal, had been seeking a situation for some days past, came in, worried at having encountered another refusal on the part of the manager of a neighbouring factory. But when he learnt that he was appointed to Le Moreux, he likewise gave expression to his joy. ‘Le Moreux! Le Moreux! a real land of savages!’ said he. ‘No matter, one will try to civilise them a little. And we shan’t be separated, the distance is less than three miles. That, you know, is what pleases me most of all!’

But Marc had now calmed down, and, indeed, sorrow was reviving in him, dimming his eyes once more. Silence fell, and the others could feel a quiver pass — the quiver of hope deferred, of a heart-pang which was ever keen. How hard would be the battle that Marc still had before him, how many more tears must he shed before he regained his lost happiness! At that thought he, and the others also, preserved silence; and Salvan, unable to give his friends any further comfort, sank into a sorrowful reverie as he gazed through the large sunlit window which faced the square.

But all at once he exclaimed: ‘Why, are you expecting somebody?’

‘Expecting somebody?’ rejoined Marc, at a loss to understand.

‘Yes, here comes a little hand-cart with some trunks.’

At that same moment the door opened, and they turned round. It was Geneviève who came in, holding little Clément by the hand, and having Louise also beside her. The surprise and the emotion were so great that at first nobody spoke. Marc was trembling. But Geneviève, in a halting voice, began at last: ‘My dear Marc, I have brought you back your son. Yes, I give him back to you — he belongs to you — he belongs to us both. Let us try to make a man of him.’

The boy had stretched out his little arms, and the father caught him up wildly, and pressed him to his heart, while the mother, the wife, continued: ‘And I have come back to you with him, my good Marc. You told me that I should bring him back, and come back myself.... It was truth that first conquered me; then all that you had set in me germinated, no doubt, for I have no pride left.... And here I am, for I still love you... I vainly sought other happiness, but only your love exists. Apart from us and our children there are only unreason and wretchedness.... Take me back, Marc! I give myself to you as you give yourself to me.’

Thus speaking, she had slowly drawn near to her husband, and she was about to cast her arms around his neck when Louise’s gay voice was heard: ‘And I, and I, father! I must share in it too, you know. You must not forget me.’

‘Yes, indeed, she must share in it, the dear girl!’ said Geneviève. ‘She strove so much to bring about this happiness, she showed such gentleness and skill.’

Then she caught Louise also in her embrace, and kissed both her and Marc, who was already holding Clément to his heart. All four were at last re-united, held in the same bond of flesh and love, having but one heart, one breath between them. And what a quiver of deep humanity, of fruitful and healthy joy now filled that large classroom, which looked so bare and empty, pending the return of the boys for the new term! Big tears welled into the eyes of Salvan and Mignot, whom emotion quite upset.

At last Marc was able to speak, and his whole heart rose to his lips: ‘Ah! my dear wife, as you return to me you must at last be cured. I knew it would be so. You turned to more and more rigid religious practices, as to stronger and stronger stupefacients, for the purpose of sending your nature to sleep; but, in spite of everything, nature was bound to eliminate the poison when at last you again felt that you were a wife and a mother.... Yes, yes, you are right; love has delivered you; you are won from that religion of error and death, from which human society has suffered for eighteen centuries past.’

But Geneviève quivered again, becoming anxious and disturbed. ‘Ah! no, no, my good Marc, do not say that! Who can toll if I am really cured? Never, perhaps, shall I be cured completely... Our Louise will be entirely free, but the mark set on me is ineffaceable, I shall always be afraid of relapsing into those mystical dreams... And if I have come back, it is to seek a refuge in your embrace, and to enable you to complete the work that has begun. Keep me, perfect me, try to prevent anything from ever separating us again!’

They caught each other in a tighter clasp: it was as if they were but one. Even as Geneviève had said, was not that the great work which needed to be accomplished — the work of taking woman from the Church, and setting her in her true place as companion and mother, by the side of man? For only the freed woman can free man: her slavery is ours.

But all at once Louise, who a moment previously had disappeared, opened the door again, bringing with her Mademoiselle Mazeline, who entered breathless and smiling. ‘Mamma,’ said the girl, ‘Mademoiselle must have a share in our happiness. If you only knew how she has loved me, and how kind and useful she was here!’

Geneviève stepped forward and embraced the schoolmistress affectionately. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘Thank you, my friend, for all you did for us during our long worries.’